


something new, something borrowed and something blue

by Lecrit



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: How Many Rom-Com Situations Can I Put Malec In?, Literary Agent Alec, Love at First Sight, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Or I Really Wanna Hold His Hand at First Sight, Wedding Planning, wedding planner magnus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-16 10:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21506764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lecrit/pseuds/Lecrit
Summary: In his years of being a wedding planner, Magnus has had some weird requests –including, but not limited to: a nudist ceremony, a dress made entirely of balloons, an underwater service and, on one memorable occasion, a wedding entirely designed to join in holy matrimony two drooling bulldogs adorned in matching suits.In retrospect, and considering all the ludicrous demands they have received over the years, being asked to put together a ceremony on the docks outside a frankly dubious looking Chinese restaurant isn’t the most bizarre thing he has heard.Being asked out by the groom, though, undeniably takes the crown.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 159
Kudos: 1721





	something new, something borrowed and something blue

**Author's Note:**

> ah shit, here we go again...
> 
> (please use #lecrit if live-tweeting is your thing)

In his years of being a wedding planner, Magnus has had some weird requests –including, but not limited to: a nudist ceremony, a dress made entirely of balloons, an underwater service and, on one memorable occasion, a wedding entirely designed to join in holy matrimony two drooling bulldogs adorned in matching suits.

Being asked to take over for Raphael at the last minute is more incongruous in itself. Raphael called him in the morning, sounding like he had had a meeting with Death itself during the night, and asked Magnus to take over the meeting he had scheduled in the morning because he was sick. Considering Raphael has never, in the four years he has worked for Magnus, used a single sick day, Magnus was tempted to call the Department of Health to inquire whether a deadly virus was currently spreading across New York. It was the only plausible explanation for Raphael to request off. Magnus has seen him turn up to the office with skin paler than Christmas snow, or refuse to leave despite a raging headache that made his usual frown even more prominent. So his concern had been legitimate, which is what he tried to tell Raphael when he showed up at his apartment with soup and the entire contents of his medicine cabinet, a valiant attempt that was promptly aborted by Raphael slamming the door in his face and grumbling a vague demand that Magnus leave everything at the door.

It hadn’t been truly reassuring, but so long as Raphael was alive enough to moan and complain about Magnus’ very existence, all the signs pointed to a certain recovery.

The fact that Raphael had called him the moment Magnus had stepped out of the building to give him a quick summary of the couple he was meant to meet in the morning and their demands regarding their upcoming wedding had also be comforting. Magnus wouldn’t be blindsided when he met them; and Raphael would have every excuse to blame him for every slightest mishap as soon as he was back in.

He was a bit scared, at first, that Raphael calling in sick was all an excuse to avoid a meeting with unpalatable clients with unreasonable demands and nonsensical expectations of what a wedding planner’s job entails, but Raphael’s tone was reasonably cantankerous as he went through the rough sketch of their dream wedding.

In retrospect, and considering all the ludicrous demands they have received over the years, being asked to put together a ceremony on the docks outside a frankly dubious looking Chinese restaurant isn’t the most bizarre thing either of them has heard.

In fact, as Magnus takes in the pier and the iron containers of mismatched colors scattered across the area, he has to admit he is even a bit charmed. It doesn’t look like much, but there is personality to the place, and he knows if they combine his creativity and Raphael’s more pragmatic eye, they could turn the place into a land of ethereal beauty and practical reception for the few hours it would be needed.

He knows the bride and groom’s last names –Fairchild and Lightwood– and he knows the latter means money. Raphael mentioned it enough throughout their call, which is why Raphael went to Magnus for this job, and not Elias who, despite being full of good ideas and overflowing creativity, is still relatively new to the wedding planning business and not quite sapient yet when it comes to the big wallets of the New York elite and the social conventions dealing with them entails.

Magnus arrives early, as he always does, and is surprised to find the happy couple already waiting for him. These people usually have a knack for making him wait until he is on the verge of snapping before they finally show up, expecting him to apologize for scheduling a meeting at such an inconvenient time when they were the ones who set it.

So, they want to get married on the docks instead of one of the fancy hotels in Manhattan where Magnus’ ever growing list of contacts seems to be evolving, and they are punctual. They are also standing sternly together, side by side but with such reasonable, prudish, distance between them that he wonders inwardly whether they have left the honeymoon phase before it even properly took place. Curious and curiouser, he tells himself, but these are considerations that aren’t his to make. He is here to help them have the best wedding they could possibly ask for, nothing else.

Tightening his hold on the iPad in his hand, Magnus walks up to them, rolling the sleeves of his silk patterned shirt as he does. He takes a moment to study them. The bride-to-be and her fiancé are standing apart from the workers, looking somehow equally out of place and completely at ease in this odd setting.

She has fierce red hair falling in elegant waves down her shoulders, her features relaxed and joyful, green eyes wide and curious and exuding the kind of easy confidence of people who know exactly what they want. Magnus knows that spark is bound to slowly vanish the closer they get to the big day, but his –and mostly, in this case, Raphael’s– job is to make it as painless and low-strung as possible every step of the way.

Now, the future groom is something else. Where she is buoyant joy and elegant excitement, he is quiet brooding and austere frowning. He has sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, hazels that skim over the place as if simultaneously reconsidering their decision of hosting the ceremony here and making mental notes of all the potential safety hazards. He wears his perfectly tailored suit as easily as breathing, and Magnus curses Raphael for not giving him at least the slightest warning about the unfair handsomeness of the man. Or his unseeming ability to scare away about anyone with one single glance. That might have to do with the proverbial poorly shod shoemaker.

Thankfully, it takes more than dapper features, a tall figure and a weirdly intriguing frown to rattle Magnus Bane, Wedding Planner Extraordinaire.

“Ms. Fairchild, Mr. Lightwood,” Magnus says, stretching his hand out with a polite smile as he meets them.

The future bride takes his hand immediately, albeit slightly hesitant.

“You’re not Raphael,” Mr. Lightwood says, perspicacious.

Magnus didn’t become one of New York’s top wedding planners without a particular set of skills in buttering rude people up and a keen sense for charm and politics.

He smiles diplomatically, hand still stubbornly outstretched toward the man. “I’m Magnus Bane, Raphael’s boss. Raphael sadly can’t make it today,” he eludes. “He’s finally had the presence of mind to remember he is actually allowed to use his sick days and asked me to stand in for him today. He sends his apologies.”

“It’s not a problem,” Ms. Fairchild chimes in, eyes broad with a panic Magnus suspects is somewhat uncharacteristic. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Bane! You were the wedding planner for our friends Lydia and John, and they can’t rave enough about you.”

Mr. Lightwood’s frown deepens, and his eyes rake over Magnus, his gaze so blatantly open that Magnus can’t help the Pavlovian reaction of his body, a long shiver running down his spine.

He is _so_ going to kill Raphael for not warning him about Lightwood, as soon as he makes sure that he didn’t finally take a sick day because he is actually, properly dying.

Ms. Fairchild resolutely elbows her husband-to-be in the ribs, hissing a warning under her breath that Magnus can’t decipher.

Lightwood blinks rapidly, and reaches out to shake Magnus’ hand. His grip is brief but strong, and yet unnervingly delicate. It swarms Magnus’ mind with decidedly inappropriate thoughts, which are only made worse when the man licks his lips as he pulls back, slender fingers brushing against Magnus’.

_What the fuck?_

Magnus grins widely, hoping it properly conceals his internal freak out, and turns to face the future bride, who is giving Lightwood an amused look, the first hint at any sort of affection between them that Magnus has witnessed.

“Raphael called me this morning and told me everything I need to know about your dream wedding. I can assure you’ll get it, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Please, call me Clary,” she replies, oddly informal already. Magnus is truly pondering on the viability of their couple, which usually only happens after the second or third meeting. “And I don’t doubt it! Lydia called you the bride whisperer.”

Magnus chuckles amiably. “We do our best,” he replies, and turns to gesture at the docks and, behind them, the Chinese restaurant. Now that he is closer, Magnus can see the red sign reading ‘out of business’ in white bold letters. “So, tell me a little more about this place. Why do you want to get married here?”

Clary tells him a beautiful story about how meaningful the place is to her. The restaurant is where she and her stepfather used to have lunch together, just the two of them, and it cemented the strength of their relationship that remains immutable to this day. It’s also where she and her best friend used to meet up when she grew older and they had the kind of teenager problems that seem trivial today but were towering obstacles to battle back then. It is where she hid when her mother passed away brutally, and where her stepfather found her and comforted her when no one else could. It is where she and her fiancé had their first date, and then countless others and thus, conveniently and naturally, where he proposed. Lightwood smiles idly when she mentions it, but it is the sole reaction he offers to Clary’s monologue. She seems a little distraught when she mentions the restaurant definitely shutting down just a few weeks ago, but the smile is quickly back on her features.

When she is done, Magnus is entirely charmed by the place, and even more so by Clary’s obvious passion when it comes to it. Magnus finds himself reinvigorated in his will to make her wedding the best day of her life, and to turn these tedious docks into the magical place that she sees through nostalgic and impossibly tender eyes.

“So,” she says after a while, worrying on her bottom lip, “could you do it here?”

Magnus casts a glance over the docks, and his mind is already drafting sketches of what it would look like with wild flowers hanging from the containers and an elegant arch giving on the pier.

He turns to her with a smile. “I have to check with the city whether we could have access to it but—”

“That won’t be a problem,” Lightwood cuts in, and he hasn’t spoken in so long, staying a few steps behind them as they walked around, Clary gesturing wildly with enthusiasm, that Magnus would have forgotten all about his presence if it wasn’t for his distracting frowns and towering height. “My mother is friends with the mayor, she’ll deal with it.”

Magnus opens his mouth for a moment, but finds himself unable to form coherent words and shuts it immediately. 

“Fantastic,” he hears himself saying, and he hopes his mild annoyance and definitely growing curiosity is rightly concealed. “Now more importantly, how many guests were you thinking? Raphael didn’t mention.”

Clary and her fiancé share a quick look, and Magnus doesn’t think he imagines the miffed purse of Lightwood’s lips.

“Around six hundred.”

His voice is steady and grave, as if he is merely commenting on the weather and not dropping a bomb on Magnus’ lap with little to no regard for what it entails for the next three months of his life.

“Oh,” he says. “Wonderful.”

He can already feel a headache ground in his temples. This isn’t the kind of wedding Raphael can handle on his own. In fact, this isn’t the kind of wedding any of them could or should handle on their own. This is going to be an all-hands-on-deck situation.

“Wonderful,” he repeats, and when Lightwood’s hazel eyes flicker to him, brows dipping further for a second, Magnus knows his valiant attempt at hiding his stupor hasn’t been as successful as he’d hoped.

.

Magnus hangs around for a bit longer, takes a few pictures and internally curses Raphael’s entire existence. He knows, reasonably, that Raphael probably didn’t want to add more work and worries to Magnus’ already impressive load, but the first thing he should have mentioned when he asked him to stand in for him was that this could very well turn out to be their biggest contract of the year –if not ever.

After sending them all to their common work file on the iPad, Magnus bids them goodbye, promising they will be in touch soon to go with them over catering, music, dress shopping, and all the next steps.

He is just stepping away, heading to his car –which is actually a utility van they use for big events and that he took today because he has to make a stop at their usual florist Meliorn to pick up some arrangements for their retirement party tomorrow on the way back— when a strong, but disarmingly gentle grip on his elbow stops him.

Magnus turns back around swiftly, and his heart jumps in his throat at the sight of Mr. Lightwood standing right there, staring at him through impossibly thick eyelashes and delightful hazel eyes that dart to the side at Clary, and then back at Magnus.

“Could I have a minute with you, Mr. Bane?”

Magnus fails to remember his own lessons on impeccable customer service, and nods curtly, unable to say much. He has a peculiar kind of presence, imposing and magnetic and yet oddly reassuring at the same time. He seems a little reserved, but also like he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to tell you exactly what he thinks. He seems like a man who knows how to get what he wants, and yet doesn’t necessarily pursue it.

“It’s just Magnus,” he says, painfully aware of how lame of an answer it is.

Lightwood gestures to Magnus’ van, the Downworld Events logo painted in elegant curves on the side, and starts walking before Magnus can do or say anything else.

“Can I help you with something, Mr. Lightwood?” he asks as he falls into step with him, wiping nonexistent dust from his iPad.

“Call me Alec,” he says, and there is something hesitant to his tone that contrasts greatly with his previous stern composure, so Magnus tilts his head in his direction to assure him that he has his full attention. “I was wondering if there is anything in particular that I should be doing. I’m not sure what my role is in all of this.”

Magnus smiles despite himself. He thought Alec was a bit rude, or one of these men who just assume their future wife will just take care of everything while they rest and make an appearance every once in a while so they can gloat about how helpful they are being. Absently, Magnus ponders to himself that perhaps Alec is just completely out of his depth here, and this must be unnerving to him. He doesn’t seem like someone who lets go very often, lest control of the situation escape him altogether.

“Just show up to all the tailor appointments, and try to be there as much as possible when we meet,” Magnus says. “In my experience, these things go much more smoothly when the mental load is shared between all the parties involved.”

Alec nods, and for a moment, Magnus wonders if he is going to get a notebook out of the inside pocket of his impeccable suit to take notes of Magnus’ every instructions, but he simply shifts on his feet instead.

“Also, definitely show up on the big day. That’s your biggest role in all of this.”

Alec snorts, his features smoothing into a lovely, easy smile, and Magnus truly hates himself for always aiming for his customers’ happiness, because this was a sight he didn’t need in his life. The lopsided grin curves on a corner of his full lips, lighting up his eyes with something relaxed and laid-back that contrasts greatly with everything Magnus has been allowed to witness so far.

Alec licks his lips and leans imperceptibly closer, although he remains firmly put on his feet. He runs a hand in his hair, tucking it in the nape of his neck as he glances back at Magnus shyly, pink-cheeked. “Could we go over everything I need to do together?” he asks, voice low. Something warm curls in Magnus’ stomach, wiping out all assumptions he may have had over the innocence of his request, a sentiment only further cemented by Alec’s next words, “Maybe over coffee?”

Magnus stares at him dumbly for a moment, as if Alec just spoke a language he can’t understand. 

Words leave him, as Alec peers down at him, something hopeful and expectant shifting in his gaze. But Magnus can’t will his lips to move, his mind blank with horror –and, perhaps, although in smaller amount, a stifled proclivity to say yes.

Alec’s eyes search his own, waiting, and Magnus combs his mind for something reasonable and diplomatic to say. For some semblance of rationality out of this whole situation. Alec can’t be asking him out, right? Not when they just spent an hour going in thorough details through the planning of his wedding, with his _fiancée_.

Alec seems to take Magnus’ silence for rejection –which it is, Magnus firmly tells himself— because his cheeks flush with embarrassment, and he clears his throat.

“Or not,” he says, choked and faltering. “You can just tell me what you need me for as we go.”

“I can’t— I don’t—” Magnus manages to breathe out. He cringes internally at the stutter in his voice, and takes a moment to compose himself, inhaling deeply. “I don’t think it would be appropriate, Mr. Lightwood,” he says finally, as gentle and formal as possible, purposely forgetting about Alec’s injunction to use his first name.

“Oh,” Alec says, and Magnus tells himself he is definitely imagining the disappointment layering in his tone. “Okay. I understand. I’m sorry I—”

“You don’t have to apologize, Mr. Lightwood,” Magnus assures him, even though, yes, he kind of does. “I think I will be overseeing this wedding with Raphael, considering the extensive number of guests. We’ll see you soon.”

Alec nods, and although he still looks crestfallen, he extends a hand, plastering a polite smile that lacks the serene edge it carried just moments ago on his features.

Magnus shakes it swiftly, refusing to linger, and turns on his heels, mentally berating himself not to start running.

.

_What –and I can’t stress this enough— the actual fuck?_

Magnus presses send, and watches absently as Meliorn and one of his employees dutifully and carefully stack flower arrangements in the back of the van.

Raphael’s answer comes a minute later, plenty of time for Magnus to go through the entirety of his interaction with Alec Lightwood for the umpteenth time since he left them on the docks just forty-five minutes ago.

_???_

_The groom hit on me!!!!! He asked me out????_

He might be slightly overdoing the punctuation, Magnus ponders to himself, but the situation calls for it, and Raphael is accustomed enough to Magnus’ dramatics not to rise up to it.

_Lightwood? He’s one of the straightest dudes I’ve ever seen. Are you certain?_

Magnus groans in frustration, and quickly types an answer.

_Pretty sure I know when I’m being asked out, Raphael. And I can’t believe that you didn’t warn me that they were planning on 600 guests!!! Or that Lightwood is hot (and DEFINITELY not straight)!!!!! You’re so fired._

He can perfectly picture Raphael rolling his eyes in his mind, but that wouldn’t change much from their usual collaboration, so Magnus doesn’t feel too guilty about his small outburst. Magnus is a tad dramatic, Raphael rolls his eyes a lot, and at the end of the day, they do great work and make their clients as happy as can be.

_Didn't think he’d be your type. He’s pretty… bland._

Magnus scoffs in indignation, but wisely chooses not to comment further on the matter. Which might have less to do with wisdom and more with Meliorn walking up to him to tell him they are done loading the van and he’ll send their invoice directly to Catarina as usual.

Nodding, Magnus pockets his phone and climbs behind the wheel with a wave at Meliorn and a head filled with jarring thoughts.

.

Magnus doesn’t dip a toe again in the Lightwood-Fairchild wedding for the next three weeks. He goes through the launch of a frankly disgusting new handbag for a fashion company, an eighteen year old’s birthday party for a billionaire’s heir who remind him why he is so glad not to be a teenager anymore and an executive retreat in Hawaii for a huge multinational company whose participants make him even gladder that he never went to work for one of these like his father would have liked him to, before he sees Alec Lightwood again.

And what a sight it is.

Downworld Events is located in the heart of Brooklyn, on Ocean Avenue, right in front of Prospect Park, and Magnus often takes little breaks throughout the day to stare out the window at the people strolling peacefully or running purposely through the park. It is often in moments like these that he is struck with a flash of genius, or at least a keen idea to figure out a logistics problem or creative hitch they were stumped at.

The illumination is strikingly different and yet brightly incandescent when Alec Lightwood walks in their office that day. A clatter of sound tears Magnus’ attention away from a laughing group of men in matching suits throwing each other a Frisbee, and he turns just in time to catch Alec holding the door open for Clary, who saunters in with the grin of a woman still being swept off her feet despite the years spent together. Another man stumbles after them, giving Alec a death glare when he playfully lets go of the door just as he steps in so that he barely avoids it crashing on his face. This man is smaller than Alec –then again, most people are, Magnus reasons— with slicked back golden hair and mismatched eyes, blue but with a hint of brown in one of them. Clary laughs lightly, and Alec winks at her, a contagious smile spreading on his features.

Magnus frowns a little at the interaction, wondering if maybe Raphael was right and Lightwood hitting on him was actually a figment of his imagination and all he meant was genuinely for them to get coffee so they could discuss his role in their upcoming wedding. His doubts are short-lived, because Alec’s eyes rake over the room, discreetly enough that Magnus never would have noticed if he weren’t hawking on Alec himself, and stop as soon as they find Magnus’ already looking back at him. His gaze, playful and teasing just a moment ago, turns bashful, almost demure, and he waves at Magnus.

Magnus waves back. Because... It just happens.

They walk right into Raphael’s office on the complete opposite side of Magnus’, and Magnus heaves out a deep breath.

“He’s hot,” Catarina, his best friend and associate, comments airily, walking in Magnus’ office to drop a stack of paid invoices for him to add to his files.

“He’s getting married,” Magnus retorts.

“He’s definitely eye-fucking you.”

“He’s getting married,” Magnus parrots. “And he’s one of our clients.”

“Sucks to be you,” Catarina points out, which is fair but also pretty fucking rude.

Magnus grunts, and grabs the papers she just brought him, making a point of ignoring her answering chuckle. 

.

Magnus is too good at his job and sometimes it’s a problem. The two smaller weddings he is working on are going smoothly, which gives him plenty of opportunities to help Raphael with the Lightwood-Fairchild’s titanic wedding.

Raphael promised him that dress and suit shopping would be a walk in the park in comparison of his own task of the day: coordinating the guests’ seating arrangements with the happy couple’s parents who seem to be a piece of work, although Raphael put it in much less gracious words.

Magnus suspects it might have to do with the fact that ever since Raphael coordinated his first dress shopping, which ended in more crying than he was comfortable with, extreme annoyance on his part, and an outraged bridal designer —one of the most exclusive in the city— who had threatened to never work with them again, he tries to dodge it as much as he can. Overall, Magnus thinks it is probably for the best if he overlooks everything that involves clothing and fragile egos, and leaves to Raphael the intricate art of seating arrangements. Raphael excels at avoiding people he dislikes –which is to say almost everyone— a skill most useful when sitting people for a rather long and formal ceremony.

Most couples Magnus works with these days aren’t really traditional, but if there is one part they all seem to be following through, it is the separate fittings for their suit and gown on the big day. The Fairchilds and Lightwoods don’t contravene that unofficial rule.

So, Magnus starts with the women.

When he walks into the shop, he immediately spots Helen, who smiles brightly when she sees him. Helen has been one of their most recurrent dress designers for a couple of years now, and when his clients don’t know exactly want they want in terms of dresses, this is where he takes them every time. Helen’s designs have the charm of traditional gowns, but also a spike of something new and creative that many of the most esteemed designers painfully lack nowadays.

She ambles to him cheerfully, and presses a kiss to his cheek when he hands over the latte he picked up for her on the way there.

“You’re my favorite,” she tells him.

“Only because I bring all my wealthiest clients to you,” Magnus opines, but his words, albeit true, are belied by the playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“And you never forget to bring me coffee,” Helen adds blithely, going back to the counter as the bell at the front door rings to announce new customers.

Magnus swirls around to find Clary walking in, closely followed by two women Magnus assumed are her bridesmaids.

“Magnus!” she says warmly. “This place is amazing.”

Magnus takes a look over the place. Helen redecorated since the last time he has been there, the white walls scattered with minimal adornments in pastel colors. There are very few dresses on display in her boutique, only two in the window to give potential customers a vague idea of the treasures they might find if they decide to wander inside and a handful hanging from hooks on the walls. Most of her designs are carefully hidden away in the back room, where she has also settled her sewing workshop. Magnus also knows this is where she keeps her best creations, which are exactly the ones he wants for his clients.

Clary looks in complete awe as her light green eyes skim over the room, and Magnus smiles, endeared despite himself. It doesn’t take a very acute sense of observation to figure out that Clary and Alec don’t really come from the same world. Alec bears the kind of bored, deeply unimpressed air of people who have been surrounded with lavish displays of wealth their whole life. Clary has none of that blasé look to her, and she marvels as her fingers brush over the expensive fabric of a dress on display.

It is refreshing, Magnus thinks, but also slightly worrying for the following weeks. Big weddings like the one they are planning are nerve-racking and all the more destabilizing for people who aren’t used to this kind of ginormous events whose main purpose serves as an indecent and competitive demonstration of prosperity and influence.

“Clary, hi,” he says, smiling back and shaking her hand. “Nice to see you again. And to finally meet your bridesmaids, I assume?”

Clary nods quickly, and extends a hand to the first woman. She is beautiful, long dark hair cascading over her shoulders, and she wears her designer midnight-blue dress with a grace Magnus has hardly ever seen in anyone. Her dark brown eyes are deep and resolute, but they also hold an acute sense of fierceness. There is no hint of the same candor Clary just displayed in her gaze, and Magnus has no trouble guessing she knows this world better than Clary ever will despite her most arduous efforts.

Her heels click across the boutique floor as she marches to Magnus to shake his hand. Her grip is delicate but firm, and her smile so elegant that Magnus thinks even royalty would pale in comparison.

“Isabelle Lightwood,” she says. “I’m the groom’s sister.”

Now that Magnus knows, the resemblance is striking, and he finds himself oddly curious to meet her and Alec’s parents, because he strongly believes there is some genetic miracle at play there.

He turns to greet the other bridesmaid, a petite, Asian woman with dark hair pulled in a ponytail tucked to the front of her neck and captivating dark eyes. She barely pays him any attention, her focus wholly on Helen, who is none the wiser with her back turned to them as she fills four obligatory champagne flutes.

Clary snorts, and softly elbows her in the stomach. “And this is Aline Penhallow,” she says, voice layered with amusement. “She usually has better manners, I promise.”

Aline rolls her eyes, and Magnus suspects it might be an excuse to camouflage the light flush on her cheeks, but he ignores it in favor of stretching a hand out. She shakes it politely, and he dutifully doesn’t react as her eyes swiftly dart to the side to catch a last inconspicuous glimpse of Helen before she turns to face them, carrying a tray of champagne and her bestselling smile.

“Anyone want a glass of champagne before we get started?”

Magnus winks at Clary, and turns to Helen, clasping his hands together. “Don’t mind if we do.”

He grabs a glass and hands it to Clary, who takes it with a grateful smile.

“Okay, I understand why Alec was miserable now,” he hears Isabelle whisper to Aline. “He’s dreamy.”

It takes all the willpower he can muster and more for him to not stumble on his own feet. This is going to be a long, _long_ afternoon.

.

One of Magnus’ favorite things about his job is the moment when they find the perfect dress after delving and digging for it for hours. 

It takes them two hours to find Clary’s. It’s a gorgeous classically inspired dress, featuring a high-necked lace bodice curling around her pale skin in intricate patterns and flowing down to long sleeves and silk panels leading to a skirt of silk and more patterned lace. Delicate golden pearls are embroidered around the waist and the cleavage, and Clary looks so beautiful in it, and her smile so wide and happy, that Magnus reaches over the counter to fist bump Helen, who grins proudly.

This is why he loves what he does; watching happiness illuminating his client’s faces when he procures for them a rare gem they didn’t even know they were looking for.

.

Alec, to Magnus’ great dismay, does not look happy when Magnus meets him at Ragnor’s tailoring shop half an hour after leaving Clary with beaming glee and palpable excitement. He’s standing by the entrance on the phone, tightly gripping the leather briefcase in his other hand, a characteristic scowl on his features. Next to him stands a disheveled brown-haired man wearing glasses, a worn Spiderman t-shirt and what seems to be a perpetual look of apprehension at basically everything.

Alec’s features relax a little when he spots Magnus approaching, and he talks with a clipped tone to the person on the other side of the line before hanging up, lips pinched.

“Everything alright?” Magnus asks with a smile as he joins them.

Alec nods, pocketing his phone. “Jace won’t be able to make it. He was called to the rescue by Raphael because the seating charts are giving them more of a headache than originally planned. Raphael said he’d take care of his suit himself so you don’t have to worry about it.”

Magnus takes everything in, struggling to match the name to a familiar face and deciding it quite suits the blond man he saw accompanying Alec and Clary the other day, and nods, eyes darting to the unfamiliar face staring at him curiously behind black-rimmed glasses.

Alec rolls his eyes and clasps a hand on the man’s shoulder, pushing him forward. “This is Simon Lewis, the other best man.”

Magnus grins, and outstretches his hand. “Nice to meet you, Simon.”

“You’re very hot,” Simon says in lieu of a greeting, earning himself a slap at the back of the head from Alec.

Magnus has very strict rules against engaging in any form of relationship that goes beyond the realm of friendship with his clients, but he has no such rule concerning best people, or the people who overall navigate around the event without being the main troupers.

Simon is fairly attractive, in a nerdy, I-will-talk-your-ears-off-but-also-make-sure-you-feel-special kind of way. The only problem is that he is standing next to Alec, which in all honesty wouldn’t be fair to anyone. Alec, who is looking so intensely at Magnus that he feels the urge to sway on his feet and smirk in a way he knows will capture the attention of his audience in a mere second. He quickly suppresses it. This isn’t Magnus’ favorite night club, or any other setting where he can let his natural, devilish charm go free, and score for himself the prospect of a wild, eventful night. It doesn’t matter that Alec’s eyes on him cause a shiver to run across his skin in the exact same way.

“In you go, gentlemen,” he announces with a grin. “Ragnor is expecting you, but I have to make a quick phone call before I join the party.”

Ragnor isn’t only one of Magnus’ best friends. He is also the finest tailor he has ever met in his entire life, and has been so for the past twenty years or so. Ragnor, unlike Helen whose business is still fairly new for the New York scene, doesn’t need the notoriety boost Magnus picking him as an exclusive go-to provider brought Helen.

Magnus watches as Simon and Alec disappear inside the shop, and speed dials Raphael.

He answers on the first ring, and Magnus doesn’t let him get a word out before he asks, “What’s the problem with the seating arrangements?”

Raphael heaves. “The problem is that when you invite six hundred people to your wedding, and over one hundred and fifty for the wedding reception, you better make sure none of them hate each other because one of them bought the last Balenciaga 2007 limited edition bag that the other one desperately wanted, because apparently that’s what these people are concerned over and it warrants lifelong grudges.”

Magnus grimaces, and suddenly feels much better about being stuck with the probably slightly easier task of dressing the groom and one of his best men, even when said groom is turning out to be more work than Magnus had anticipated, although not the way grooms are usually an additional load to Magnus’ preoccupations as he plans their wedding. “If you don’t find a solution, just keep a copy of what you have so far on my desk and I’ll go over them when I get home tonight.”

“I’ll be fine, Magnus,” Raphael replies. “You should talk to Maia, though, because Jace told me they went food tasting with the caterer they had planned on hiring because it was recommended by a family’s acquaintance and it was terrible.”

Magnus snorts. “Was it Lorenzo?”

“You know it was,” Raphael grunts. “I still can’t fathom why these people still think he’s any good at his job just because he has a show on TV. Anyway, how did the dress shopping go?”

“We found it,” Magnus says. “I have to go, Ragnor is inside with Alec and Simon. Any specifics on your file for their suits?”

“Already transferred the whole thing to Ragnor yesterday,” Raphael says, and lets out a deep, guttural sigh of exasperation. “I have to go, the Lightwood mother looks like she is about to rip the hair off her head.”

“Good luck with that,” Magnus chuckles.

Raphael hangs up, just as a yell of frustration resounds behind him, and Magnus winces, deciding he is definitely happy not to be dealing with this right now.

When Magnus walks into Ragnor’s shop, he is surprised to find it utterly silent, and deserted. Elegant fabrics are lined across the walls, leading up to a row of closed dressing rooms that Ragnor uses to take his customers’ measurements. Shrugging, Magnus heads to the counter and leans over it until he is all but lying on top of it so he can pick up one of the scones Ragnor always keeps stashed in a small cupboard underneath.

He takes a bite, and definitely doesn’t almost fall on his butt when someone clears their throat behind him.

Swirling back around, scone still in his mouth, Magnus finds Alec standing there, amusement lighting up his eyes. He is wearing a white dress shirt that he is in the process of buttoning, letting show a deft of hair lightly covering a strong chest, and Magnus gulps at the sight, pulling the pastry out of his mouth.

“Scone?” he asks for lack of anything more eloquent to say, gesturing to the pastry in his hand as if it wasn’t clear what he was talking about. “Ragnor keeps the good stuff in his desk.”

Amusement lingers in Alec’s gaze as he crosses the distance between them, but he shrugs, and Magnus walks around the desk instead of laying rather inelegantly over it, grabbing a scone for Alec.

“Where is Ragnor, by the way?”

“Went with Simon to take his measurements,” Alec replies, chewing on the pastry. “Simon kept squirming because he’s ticklish and your friend didn’t seem like the patient type, so he might have killed him by now. They’ve been in there for a while.”

Magnus can’t help but chuckle, because it definitely sounds like Ragnor. “You don’t seem too heartbroken about it.”

Alec shrugs, but there is a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and Magnus really, really wishes _he wouldn’t_. “It’ll undeniably be a terrible loss. He was a good client. A pretty shitty friend, though, so there’s that.”

Magnus knows he shouldn’t ask, but his curiosity is piqued, and he can hardly be blamed for wanting to know more about his client. It will just help him provide the best service he possibly can. And he wants to give them the best wedding possible. That’s all.

“A good client?” he hears himself ask.

Dress shirt fully buttoned, Alec loops a midnight blue tie around his collar, crossing the thicker end in front of the thinner end.

“I’m a literary agent,” Alec eludes, making quick work of tying it around his neck. “Simon and Clary write children’s books together. Well, he writes and she illustrates. I work for them.”

“That sounds fun,” Magnus says, and he means it. “Do you only do children books?”

“Oh no,” Alec scoffs, shaking his head. “Simon and Clary are my only clients in that genre. I took them in because well... they’re Simon and Clary.”

He takes a step back and extends both his hands, showing the fit of the shirt. Ragnor still painfully absent, Magnus walks back around the corner to face Alec, studying the fit of the shirt around his figure. He is persuaded that will prove to be a mistake dizzyingly fast, but Magnus has never been known to be one for reasonable and practical choices.

“It needs to be adjusted around your waist,” Magnus states, which is blatant even for him who doesn’t have Ragnor’s expert eye. “So, do your clients write all sorts of genre?”

Alec stays still as Magnus reaches out to rumple the shirt around his waist and assess the necessary adjustments with a critical gaze.

“Not really,” he says. “They mainly do either horror or LGBT+ themed work.”

Magnus lifts an eyebrow, gesturing for Alec to hold his arms up so he can check the sleeves. Alec obliges.

“That’s an odd combination.”

“Is it, though?” Alec retorts, and Magnus is not even the slightest bit charmed by the teasing spark flashing in his gaze.

Pursing his lips, he scoffs out a quiet laugh under his breath, throwing Alec a pointed look as he inspects critically the cut of the shirt. It does nothing to placate Alec’s amusement, and even less the flutter of Magnus’ heart.

“Anyone whose work I might be familiar with?”

Alec hums hesitantly, and Magnus feels his pulse quicken under his fingertips as he touches his wrist, which is only when Magnus realizes that he might have gotten a bit ahead of himself by taking it upon himself to gauge the work to be done on the shirt by himself. It also brought them much closer than Magnus would have allowed himself if he had any common sense, especially after the slight… mishap on the docks.

“My most famous client is probably Jem Carstairs,” Alec says, and Magnus definitely doesn’t shiver at the way his voice drops an octave, because he is too busy widening his eyes and whipping his head up to stare at Alec, dumbfounded.

“Jem Carstairs? You’re his agent?”

Alec nods and smiles a sheepish smile. “Have been for the past four years.”

“I loved his latest book so much,” Magnus can’t help but rave. “The character’s spiritual journey towards self-acceptance was so beautiful it genuinely made me tear up a few times.”

Alec smiles again, something almost shy now. “Yeah, it was pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Magnus parrots, offended. “Alexander, it was genius.”

One of Alec’s unfairly attractive eyebrows jumps behind a strand of hair falling on his forehead. “Alexander?”

Magnus takes a step back, and one of Alec’s hands moves up as if to stop him, but quickly falls back against his side.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking away. “Mr. Lightwood,” he adds tentatively.

Alec shakes his head, licking his lips in that devastating habit of his. “No, Alexander is fine,” he says, voice a little choked. “You can call me Alexander.”

“Well, Alexander, it was _genius_ ,” Magnus repeats, if only to ease some of the tension that he knows is growing between them. 

How long does it take Ragnor to take fucking measurements? He’ll add this to the ever growing list of grievances he holds against his oldest friend.

Alec chuckles, raising both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. You’re right. It was _genius_.”

Magnus nods, satisfied, and goes back behind the counter, where the distance between them is safe and harmless and mutually beneficial.

“Anything you can tell me about his next book?” he asks, going for casual and failing spectacularly.

Alec smirks, as he joins him at the desk, picking up his previously discarded scone to take a bite. “My lips are sealed.”

Magnus pouts, even though he understands better than most that there are some things about your clients that should never leave the private knowledge they entrust onto you. Alec seems to be perfect to fit in that category, but Magnus pushes the thought away. He has many more examples, which have gone from hiding pregnancy to placate dreadfully conservative relatives to making sure rumors about the splendor of an upcoming event doesn’t reach the ears of overly talkative gossipers.

“Do you like it?” Magnus asks.

Alec’s eyes light up at once. “I do. It’s a rewarding job.” He is quick to explain when he catches Magnus’ dubious expression. “I get to see passionate people grow through their art with every new work, and the process and hardships they go through along the way. It’s amazing to witness how a book can go from the first rough draft they send me to a gut-wrenching work of art. It’s rewarding because I get to see them step into the spotlight and be recompensed for the tears and blood and hours of hard work they put into their craft.”

And Magnus thinks that there is so much more to Alec than meets the eye. There is something about him he cannot grasp, how he can take such pride in the achievements of others, how he can be so clearly passionate about their success while he hides in the shadows and orchestrates it, how utterly selfless he ought to be to even reach that level of detachment of his own role in all of it, and yet be self-indulgent enough to ask Magnus out and regard him with this kind of blunt and transparent rapture while Magnus is tasked with planning his wedding to another woman.

“That sounds very noble of you,” Magnus points out, the words tasting a little bitter on his tongue.

Alec shrugs, in a discarding, humble way that shouldn’t be as graceful and endearing as it is.

“What about you?” he asks, clearly eager to change the subject. His fingers tapping idly against the counter successfully distract Magnus from his meandering thoughts. “I mean, I know you’re a wedding planner. But _why_ a wedding planner?”

Magnus knows exactly the answer to this.

When he was thirteen, he planned his mother’s wedding to his stepfather.

They didn’t have the kind of money Alec’s family can spend on a wedding planner, but Magnus had wanted her to have the kind of dream wedding she hadn’t been allowed with his biological father, Asmodeus, who had enchanted her with promises, clutched her heart into the palm of his hand, and left when Magnus was just old enough to remember him but too young to realize their lives could only be better without him in the picture.

Magnus had wanted to see his mother smile, something she did too rarely, even in the presence of his stepfather, who had seemed dull in his child’s eyes against his biological father’s magnetic presence, but had proven to be safe and kind and loving in ways that made Asmodeus pale in comparison.

He had picked up magazines when he visited his stepfather at the dental clinic where he worked, and decided it was his job to make their wedding the event of the century. They had mostly humored him because he had been adamant about it, and Magnus suspects they hadn’t imagined he would do such a good job at it.

In retrospect, the ceremony had been perfect in all its imperfections. The dress Magnus had picked out himself had made his mother look more radiant than he remembers ever seeing her. It wasn’t so much the dress itself, though, but more the happiness that had glowed on her features all day long, and that grin she had worn proudly as she told everyone whose hard work had to be credited for the unmitigated success.

It was all Magnus, she had repeated throughout the day, and then again when their relatives back in Indonesia had preened over the photographs they had mailed over.

To anyone who hadn’t been paying close attention, there would have been no discernable sign, that day, of the ravages the depression had already caused on her body and mind. She had lost a lot of weight, already, and Magnus remembers having to make last-minute adjustments on her lustrous dress to hide how thin he had become.

Still, he also recalls how happy she had been as they had exchanged their vows in front of a small congregation of the friends that disappeared as soon as she was gone.

Magnus had made many mistakes that day —the biggest one probably being his daring but disastrous attempt at baking the wedding cake himself— but none of them had truly mattered when his reward had been the happiness etched on his mother’s features.

She had taken her own life six months later, leaving Magnus and his stepfather alone and heartbroken.

His stepfather had been catatonic with despair, so Magnus had taken care of his mother’s funeral, too. When the time came to choose a picture for the service, the decision of picking one of her portraits from her wedding day, where she looked radiant and happy and exactly how Magnus wanted to remember her, had been something of an evidence.

Two years later, cancer had taken his stepfather into its ruthless, potent wake, and then it had only been Magnus.

Magnus had been too stricken by grief to consider even doing anything of the sort again, the memories tarnished by the devastating outcome that had followed. And then, a few years later, his best friends had gotten married when they were too young, poor and irresponsible to do so according to most people. Eager and penniless, they had turned to Magnus for help, so he had found himself planning a wedding again. And when Catarina and Ragnor had beamed at him from the altar, and then throughout the day, bliss written so plainly on their features, Magnus had seen a little bit of his mother in them, in this fleeting but tremendous happiness he could create for others if only for a day.

He had realized, that day, that bringing people happiness, even ephemeral, even fabricated by his own hands, was what drove him every day to thrive and be the best version of himself he could possibly be.

Making a living out of it hadn’t been much of a choice after that, but had fallen more somewhere in the realm of those things in life that one just _knows_ , even when there is no clear or rational explanation for it.

Magnus glances back at Alec, at the genuine interest in his eyes locked on him in that equally tentative and determined way of his, and he chews on his bottom lip.

“I just like making people happy,” he says, finally.

It is the simple answer, but it is true and heartfelt nonetheless.

Alec’s eyes soften, and he leans on the counter to meet Magnus’, leveling him with a look so honest and supportive that Magnus feels the breath catch in his throat.

“I really think you do,” he says, “and that you’re pretty great at it.”

Something warm and comforting spreads from Magnus’ chest, curling around his bones all across his body, and he finds himself smiling, throwing prudence to the wind.

“Thank you, Alexander.”

He stares in wonder as the name coming out of his mouth has Alec’s expression shifting, and his hazel eyes roam over Magnus’ face as if cataloging the way he looks when he says it. Magnus opens his mouth to talk, to break this heavy silence that has fallen amidst them, but he finds he doesn’t really know what to say, or if he should even break it at all. 

There is humanity in Alec’s eyes, the person that he is and that so varies from the first impression Magnus had of him. Alec isn’t stern or cold, he is patient and considerate and so used to overlooking everyone —because of his height, his social status, his natural grace— that he seems to have taken it upon himself to make himself smaller for the sake of others. But when he is like this, completely at ease, he becomes someone else, someone other than the man the world demands of him.

It’s when the green in his gaze is most prominent.

Magnus wonders if this is him, the real version of him, and if it is, he understands a little bit better why Clary is so enthusiastic about marrying him. His stomach sinks when he realizes, a flash of guilt coursing through his mind, that this isn’t a look Alec should be addressing him, but it doesn’t have time to shape into a coherent, ingrained thought, because Alec glances up at him through outrageously thick eyelashes, toying with his fingers over the desk, and murmurs,

“Magnus, can I ask you something?”

And Magnus is powerless to do anything but nod, every nerve in his body suddenly electrified.

The sound of the hands of Ragnor’s antique clock tick at his back, marking each second passing where Alec seems to be gathering his courage and debating with himself whether or not the game is worth the candle.

It’s not, Magnus wants to tell him, but the words are stuck in his throat, pressing against his chest until his breath is stuttering.

Alec taps his fingers nervously against his other hand, and tilts his head to Magnus. His voice is low, beguiling in ways he probably doesn’t realize, and impossibly cautious. 

“If it weren’t… _inappropriate_ ,” he starts, and it is plain in his tone that he is intentionally using the same word Magnus did, “would your answer have been different?”

Magnus’ heart slams against his ribcage, and a heavy lump settles in his throat, tasting bitter and dangerous. His pulse pounds against his temples, and he looks at Alec, at the tiny shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks, at the reddish spot on his bottom lip that comes from his bad but endearing habit of digging his teeth there, at the strands of hair falling elegantly on his forehead. Magnus urges himself to let all the reasons not to indulge into this flooding his brain, even as his body seems to react almost naturally to Alec’s chemistry, as if his very existence is an invitation for Magnus to come curl against him and test whether their bodies would fit together as perfectly as he imagines if he lets his mind wander.

Soft panic grows in his chest, and fades away the next moment, because Magnus prods it away as he reaches out to brush his fingers against Alec’s, gentle but distant.

“Alec,” he whispers, the name coming out strangled but with all the determination he can summon. “Don’t go there.”

Something Magnus can’t quite decipher flashes in Alec’s eyes, but it lasts only a second before he looks down, nodding. He sucks in a sharp breath.

“Okay,” he says, although his tone is vacillating and there is no mistaking the disappointment Magnus caused.

Unexpectedly, it makes anger swirl in his stomach, and Magnus grits his teeth to contain it lest he starts snapping at his client. Because Alec is just that, his _client_. His client who is getting married to a smart, creative, beautiful woman whose green eyes light up whenever she talks about the upcoming ceremony. Alec is getting married, and it isn’t fair of him to impose on Magnus this burden, and then to let him carry the guilt when Magnus has to unequivocally reject him.

Thankfully, although Magnus isn’t sure who it benefits most, Ragnor seems to finally remember that his shop goes beyond the private dressing room because he finally walks in, streams of fabrics flowing down his arms.

He casts a look between Magnus and the groom-to-be, and Alec straightens back up, licking his lips nervously.

“That won’t do,” Ragnor says, pointing at Alec’s waist. “Follow me, Mr. Lightwood.”

Alec darts a quick, tentative glance at Magnus, but obliges, heading after Ragnor to the dressing rooms, his feet dragging across the floor in a decisively gauche manner.

“And Magnus, stop eating my scones!” Ragnor brittles as he strolls away. “I had them come directly from Harrods!”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sounds of delight I make with every mouthful,” Magnus retorts, stuffing his mouth with another pastry.

Ragnor sighs in defeat but doesn’t argue, knowing this is a fight he cannot win. Magnus is starting to think he might become familiar with the feeling soon enough.

.

Two days later, when Magnus walks into the office in the early hours of the morning, he finds a neatly wrapped gift on his desk. He opens it with a frown, and his heart jumps to his throat.

His signed copy of Jem Carstairs’ yet unreleased _The Light Inside_ strikes itself a carefully selected place inside Magnus’ drawer.

.

Magnus hears Maryse Lightwood’s heels clicking on the paving stones of the docks before he sees her. When he turns around, she is still a few feet away, but she exudes of class even from a distance. Her arm is hooked with Alec’s, and his head is dipped a little to talk to her, and yet she doesn’t seem to be an inch smaller than him, holding herself with her chin held high and her shoulders squared powerfully. Her hair is tucked in an intricate braid on the side, and it doesn’t move even as she gestures with a flight of her hands to the former Chinese restaurant where they have planned to meet.

They are engrossed in their own little world, and there is such affection in Alec’s gaze as he glances down at his mother that Magnus feels his own heart clench at the sight, although he refuses to ponder for too long on the reason behind it. 

When they finally reach Magnus, she unhooks their arms to shake his hand with a polite smile and introduce herself. Magnus accepts the hand, returns the greeting, and turns to Alec, unsure what to do. This is when he notices Alec is holding a cardboard pulp tray carrying two paper cups. He plucks one out and hands it over to Magnus, who tries not to let his eyebrows jump behind his hairline and probably fails miserably.

“Thank you,” he hears himself say automatically, and Alec smiles, soft and sweet.

Magnus clears his throat and takes a sip to distract himself and his clients from the flush he can feel surfacing on his cheeks, and can’t refrain a delighted moan when the drink hits his tongue. It’s a hazelnut latte, tall, with light foam on the top and still warm, and Magnus’ brows dip in surprise, because he never once mentioned how he liked his coffee to Alec, and there is no way Raphael told him because Raphael never bothered to remember any of their favorite coffee orders. When he has the ludicrous idea of either making or buying coffee for the office, he brings black coffee for everyone and silently judges anyone who dares not to drink it in all its bitterness.

Magnus tugs his iPad against his stomach, and the cup in his other hand, and motions for them to follow.

“Maia is waiting for us inside,” he tells them. “Is Clary not coming?”

“She’s on her way with Jace but they’re stuck in traffic,” Alec replies. “She said we could start without her, though. And that she trusted us to choose.”

Maryse clears her throat pointedly, and Alec rolls his eyes, both actions layered with teasing affection.

“And that she trusted Mom to choose,” Alec corrects.

Magnus chuckles, opening the door for them. “I only have an hour before I have to leave, but that’s more than enough for Raphael to join us and you to discover Maia’s vast talents,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. The second sip is —and he didn’t know that was possible— even more heavenly. He had been nurturing the foolish hope that perhaps the first one was mostly wishful thinking and a deep craving for caffeine, but it clearly wasn’t. “I know she wasn’t on your first choice of caterers for the wedding, but we are used to working with her and she is honestly one of the best chefs I have ever met throughout my whole career.” He ponders for a second on his next words, and chooses to throw caution to the wind, which is something he seems to be doing far too often these days. “Lorenzo isn’t.”

Alec hides a mirthful smile with a sip of his own cup, his eyes crinkling at the corner, but Maryse simply nods, and there is something almost defiant there, as if she is expecting everything he tells her to disappoint her greatly but she will be too polite to say so in such terms.

They take a seat at a table in the middle of the deserted restaurant. The place is currently under renovations, the walls covered with protective tarpaulins. Magnus was completely flabbergasted when Raphael told him that it is because the Lightwood family bought the restaurant, which had been closed and vacated for approximately six weeks, and were renovating it specially for the wedding, after which they would probably sell it back with a nice capital gain. The surprise has settled by now, and he tries not to smile when he spots Alec surveying the place with a calculating look, as if to make sure everything is going smoothly. It is kind of sweet, how dedicated he is to everything going without a hitch. Less sweet, in itself, when Magnus considers the fact Alec has made his intentions toward him if not vocally explicit, at least unreservedly manifest. 

Maia joins them a moment later, adorned with an apron that says in elegant calligraphy ‘Maia’s Kitchen’ and her most professional smile. Her natural curls are tugged into a bun on the top of her head, two loose strands falling on both sides of her head, brown cheeks round with nerves. This is a huge deal for her, and no matter how many times Magnus tried to reassure her that everything would be fine and that anyone would have to be insane not to swoon over her cooking, it did nothing to soothe her agitation. Hands trembling just enough for only Magnus to notice, she lays a plate and three forks between them, and Magnus’ mouth already waters at the sight of the various canapés presented to them.

They look as beautiful as he knows them to be delicious.

Maryse is the first to pick one up, clearly not one to beat around the bush, and Magnus watches, a smirk tugging at his lips, as her eyes widen as she chews slowly, savoring every bite, fingers fluttering in front of her mouth in shock. Alec seems surprised to witness his mother’s reaction, and curiosity gets the best of him because he grabs a fork to take a bite himself. His reaction is so strikingly alike the one his mother had just a moment ago that Magnus would laugh if Alec hadn’t chosen this moment to make an indecent noise of pleasure that would make anyone with less natural poise than Magnus flush bright red.

“I know, right?” he says, going for cheerful but tone falling flat and a little breathy instead.

“Holy shit that’s good,” Alec exclaims bluntly, and the enthusiasm is so unlike anything he has let Magnus see before, genuinely excited and brightly mirrored in his eyes, that he scoffs out a quiet laugh, taken aback.

“Alec,” Maryse hisses under her breath, looking a little embarrassed but even more amused.

Alec tries an apologetic look, but it becomes quite evident he isn’t really sorry, or all that bothered when he just shrugs and grabs another canapé.

“Seriously,” he claims, sucking the tip of his thumb into his mouth not to miss any drop of Maia’s infamous lobster mousse, “if she’s not the caterer at the wedding, I’m not going.”

Maryse hits him squarely on the shoulder. “Don’t joke about that!” she scoffs, offended.

Alec chuckles, and Magnus can’t help but laugh lightly with him, even though the implication of his words have his stomach twist with both yearning and shame. Alec’s eyes shine a little brighter as they settle on Magnus’ laughing face. He gives him one of those lopsided grins that make Magnus’ lungs contract almost painfully, and winks at him connivingly.

.

“I hate him so much,” Magnus grumbles dramatically a couple of weeks later.

“What did Alec Lightwood do now?” Catarina asks, slouching next to him on the couch and laying her feet on his lap. Her words might have been sarcasm, or might not, but Magnus is too busy wallowing in self pity and longing –and a fair amount of lust– to spend energy analyzing his best friend’s derision.

“He and Maia really hit it off the other day and he’s offered to help her expand her business and—“

“Isn’t his thing supposed to be books?” Catarina asks, sounding a little suspicious.

Magnus sighs, hoping it properly conveys all of his righteous anger. “It is, but as I said, they really hit it off. She called me a couple of days ago and he came up to her with a full business plan and basically offered to help her for free for now and then maybe become her official associate if it works out. They had a meeting to talk about it more officially today and he brought the whole office cupcakes she made before his meeting with Raphael.”

“What an _ass_ ,” Catarina huffs, and this time, Magnus doesn’t even have a chance to pretend it isn’t full blown sarcasm.

Magnus gulps down a mouthful of wine, glaring at her.

“You’re being very unhelpful.”

“I’m really glad I’m not dealing with the Lightwood-Fairchild wedding in any way because I want no part in that mess.”

Magnus throws her a pointed, irritated look. “Again. Unhelpful,” he says, deadpan.

“What do you want me to help you with?” Catarina asks, snorting inelegantly. “Alec Lightwood is very sweet and hot and wants to have sex with you. You poor soul; that sounds positively _awful_.”

“He’s also engaged,” Magnus complains, pinching her shin. She kicks his thigh lightly in retaliation. “To one of our _clients_. Actually, they both are our clients.”

“And you totally want to have sex with him too anyway,” Catarina retorts knowingly, smirking to herself as she grabs her chopsticks and swallows a mouthful of noodles.

“I do not!” Magnus protests with a look of total horror.

“Yes, you do,” Ragnor chimes in as he walks in from the hallway with a freshly acquired bottle of wine and complete disregard for their years of friendship. 

Catarina laughs loudly, throwing her head back, and Magnus scowls at the demonic couple, crossing his arms over his chest in a decisively non petulant manner.

“I need new friends.”

.

So, as it turns out, Magnus most definitely wants to have sex with Alec. Which would be less of a problem if he didn’t also want to take him out on a date and hold his hand and ask him how he likes his eggs in the morning.

Because Magnus isn’t that kind of person. He simply _isn’t_. He has been cheated on several times —most of them by the same person, but Camille really had a knack for setting records on how to be the shittiest partner possible— and he would never _ever_ consider doing that to a person, no matter what role he plays in the endeavor.

What he cannot grasp, though, is that Alec doesn’t seem to be that kind of person either. Alec is sweet and kind and loyal to a fault. In the past couple of months, he has witnessed him interact with friends and family enough to know that much. After the last appointment with Maia, Magnus has taken a step back and left Raphael to take care of almost everything, both because he knows he is more than capable of doing a great job on his own and also because he knows what was just physical attraction toward their admittedly devastatingly handsome client has morphed into something else, something deeper and scarier and far less shallow than Magnus would care to admit to.

Still, he has seen Alec talking with his mother, the little attentions he displays to make sure she is comfortable at all times. He has seen the way his sister Isabelle absolutely adores him, and how wholeheartedly it is reciprocated. He has seen the way he makes Clary smile despite being more reserved towards her, and how he respects her opinions and never tries to impose his own on her. He has seen how protective he seems to be with the people he loves, and yet never smothers them in unwarranted concerns because he trusts them to hold their ground and be fierce and tenaciously resilient on their own.

It just isn’t in character for him to try to cheat on his fiancée, and with their wedding planner no less.

If Magnus is completely honest, it is driving him a bit crazy, trying to decipher Alec Lightwood’s complexity with no other weapon on his side but his mind and the little moments where he catches him on his way to Raphael’s office or the small attentions he never fails to bestow him even when Magnus isn’t there. Sometimes he goes to sit at his desk and finds a coffee waiting for him, with a note from Catarina saying “your boy bought coffee for the whole office again” and his name scribbled on the cup, the inevitable misspelling neatly fixed with Alec’s now familiar handwriting. Sometimes, Alec adds a succinct note wishing him a good day, and Magnus’ stomach lurches with every scrawled word.

It is sweet, and a disaster because for every small attention, Magnus forgets for a moment who Alec is, and why they even met at all; and then it comes crashing back tenfold and his mind swirls in its vain attempts at making sense of the situation, and his stomach lurches with guilt even though he isn’t truly culpable of anything but the thoughts in his own head and the sheepish smiles he does his very best to hide.

Alec is getting married, and it shouldn’t make his heart clench painfully in his chest.

It is late on a Friday night, and Magnus is the last one in the office, working on a rough draft of the seating arrangements for another wedding they have coming up in a couple of months, when the telltale noise of the buzz from their front door bursts through the room, making him jump in his seat.

Most of the time, they keep the door open, mostly because the buzzer that serves as a ringbell is a sound he imagines would be used to torture the worst inhabitants of Hell. When one of them stays late in the office, however, and especially on the weekends, they always make sure to shut it.

Magnus didn’t order food –he had a late lunch, and his stomach has been twisted in knots ever since he checked their calendar for the month and saw that Alec and Clary’s wedding was only three weeks away from now– so he lets a natural sense of worry build into his chest as he walks to the intercom.

He presses a button on the bottom of the device. “Who’s there?”

At first, all he can surmise is sniffling, and then he hears a faint, “Magnus? Can I come up?”

It takes a moment for him to recognize Clary’s soft inflections behind her quavering voice.

Frowning, Magnus buzzes her in and waits, filled with nervous anticipation and scattered focus as she comes up the stairs.

When she reaches him, Magnus stills in the threshold, heart leaping to his throat.

After working for years for people from the upper New York class, Magnus has come to realize one thing: they are taught from a very young age to cry with style, and it is a lesson that endures even the cruelest hardships, even the hardest of times. Clary doesn’t come from their world, and it is an officious rule she seems to have taken in stride. She stands there in front of him, eyes red and luminous with tears that roll down her pale cheeks like ethereal pearls. Her makeup has left no smears or streaks on her skin, and although she looks devastated, she still holds herself with her chin tipped up and her shoulders rolled back.

They might make her one of theirs just yet, and he doesn’t know if he feels relieved on her behalf or sad at the mere idea.

“Clary,” Magnus says carefully. He wants to ask if she’s okay, but the answer is painfully obvious and it would sound dull even to his own ears. “What’s going on?”

Clary inhales deeply through an open mouth, and the breath staggers out of her lips feebly. “I don’t– I don’t think I can do this,” she wheezes out, and then she bursts into tears, and Magnus finds himself reaching out and gathering her against his chest.

She clasps desperately against the back of his jacket for support, and unburdens whatever she has to on his shoulder, her own shaking with every cry.

“What’s going on?” Magnus asks again, once her sobs have quelled a little and she is left panting against his neck.

“It’s just too much pressure,” she says, and for a moment, she sounds like she is going to start crying again but she braces herself with a deep breath and pulls back, rubbing the back of her long-sleeved cardigan under her eyes. “They all have something to say. We’re all they talk about and–”

“Clary,” Magnus whispers, as gently as possible as he guides her to their small office kitchen so she can take a seat while he makes them both tea. “What are you talking about?”

Clary sniffles miserably, worrying on her bottom lip. “We went out for dinner tonight, and there was this couple. I recognized them from one of those galas we went to a few months ago, and I’m sure they’re on our guest list. And they kept looking at me like… like I wasn’t good enough? Like I didn’t deserve to be there? What if this is what they all think? What are they going to whisper behind our backs?”

Magnus purses his lips and reaches over the table to grab her hand. “Does it matter?” he asks.

Clary scoffs out a quiet laugh, but there is no humor to it and rather infinite lassitude. “With these people, it is all that matters,” she mumbles.

Magnus takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and watches her in silence. He never really stopped to look at Clary and think about what she felt throughout this whole process. But he understands a little better now. He hasn’t been very active in the planning of their wedding, but apart from the location itself, Clary seems to have surrendered control of how the whole thing is meant to happen, how many guests there should be, who should pick the food, pick the cake, pick the music, pick the details that should reflect her own artistic soul on her special day.

She wants to belong, belong to this world she has stumbled in, but she doesn’t, not really. People like them never truly do, but it is up to Clary to figure out whether she wants to or not.

Magnus sighs, and pours them two fuming cups of white tea, putting one in front of her.

“But should it matter?” he says, not unkindly. “Trust me on this: people are going to talk no matter what you do. It is up to you to decide whether or not you want your self-esteem and your self-worth to be in their hands. This is your wedding, biscuit. You shouldn’t be doing it according to what you think people may want, or what you think they should see in you. You should do it the way _you_ want to do it.”

Clary gazes up at him through green eyes brimming with tears. “Even if it means I don’t want six hundred people I have never seen there? Even if it means throwing away all the hard work Raphael has put into this? And you, and Maia, and–”

“Even if it means you get married in a cheap chapel in Las Vegas with a terrible Elvis sosie officiating,” Magnus cuts in, smiling gently. “If that’s what you want, then it is what you should do.”

“I– Okay,” Clary says, although she still sounds doubtful.

Magnus takes a seat in front of her, grabbing her hand again. “But no matter what, this isn’t something you should go through alone,” he tells her, as soothingly as he can. “You should take some time to think about it by yourself, and then talk about it.”

Clary makes a pained face. “I don’t want to disappoint them,” she murmurs forlornly.

Magnus shakes his head. “You won’t. If they care for you the way you care for them, your loved ones will understand, and no one will blame you. And it might create an upsurge of gossip, but it will die down after a while. These things always do.”

She expels a deep breath, and nods, this time seemingly with more assurance. “Okay.”

“For now,” Magnus adds cautiously, wistfully swallowing past the lump in his throat, “you should talk about it with Alec.”

“With Alec?” Clary repeats, sounding doubtful again.

Magnus nods. “Talk to him, and whoever else you deem appropriate, take a couple of days to mull it over and then come back to us to let us know what you want to do. If what you want is a small wedding, then a small wedding you shall have. If you don’t want to change anything, then we will go on with the planning as if none of this ever happened. Does that sound good?”

Clary takes a long sip of her tea, eyes lost into nothingness, and nods.

.

 _I may have convinced Clary to cancel the wedding_ , he texts Raphael as soon as she is gone, a bit of color back on her cheeks. _I don’t know. She will call us on Monday._

_I left you alone for two hours! TWO! HOURS!_

_She came to the office and she was sobbing her heart out,_ Magnus justifies himself, even though he really doesn’t have to. _I don’t think she wants a big wedding, and maybe she doesn’t want a wedding at all._

 _You know our job is to PLAN weddings, right?_ Raphael replies. _That might prove to be difficult if you convince the brides to cancel their wedding TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE BIG DAY!_

That’s a lot of capital letters, Magnus ponders to himself with a grimace. Raphael must really be angry.

 _Our job is to make people happy_ , Magnus types out quickly, leaning back into his chair and staring at the empty mug of tea Clary left behind, Downworld Events’ logo printed on the side.

 _.... Fine_ , Raphael answers. _I hope she calls on Monday and doesn’t run away with a stripper next weekend during her bachelorette party. If she does, I’ll tell Cat it’s all your fault._

Magnus really has the worst friends, he thinks, going back to his desk with his barely touched cup of tea. Working on the seating arrangements would give him more of a headache, and he really doesn’t need that right now, so he lets his eyes roam over his space instead.

They fall quite naturally on the Jem Carstairs’ book on the shelf, and his thoughts, as they disturbingly often do, wander to hazel eyes, disheveled dark hair, and spine-tingling lips curved into a gracious smile.

And his stomach lurches again, as Magnus wonders if he indeed convinced Clary to cancel a wedding he knows he doesn’t want happening for very selfish reasons, but then the truth that he hasn’t thought about Alec –not in this way, anyway– once while he was talking to her strikes him, and all he can do is sigh sorrowfully.

Because he saw it in Clary’s eyes tonight, and he knows, despite what he told Raphael, that when she calls them on Monday, it won’t be to tell them that the wedding is cancelled.

And that shouldn’t make him feel as despondent as it does.

.

On Monday, Magnus ends up back at the docks. The aggressive neons of the former Chinese restaurant are no more, instead replaced with an elegant sign that reads ‘Maia’s kitchen’ in cursive letters. The new windows haven’t been installed yet, but as Magnus steps inside, he can’t help but marvel at the work that has already been done.

Gone is the safety hazard the place had been just a couple months ago. The former dining room has been replaced by an open space where the buffet will be served for the wedding, and the walls repainted in a pastel blue that turned the once frankly dodgy setting into a welcoming area, house plants hanging on the walls in beautiful ceramic pots and from hooks on the ceiling. The dubious looking tiles are now maple flooring that matches the wooden counter also adorned with Maia’s revamped logo.

“What do you think?”

Magnus startles, turning around to face Alec, who is leaning against the wall in the threshold. His eyes automatically search for Raphael, and find him outside through the hole where a window will be soon, talking with Clary and Jace, a deep frown on his face as he looks at something with them on his iPad.

They have a lot of work to do to turn this originally monstrous wedding into something intimate and modest, something more along the lines of what Clary told them she truly wanted after she called them in the morning. She recounted her weekend, how she had taken time to think it through and realized most of her nerves came from the fact that their plans hadn’t reflected what she truly wanted all along. It isn’t as intimate and modest as most people would call it, but a hundred people is an all other feat from six hundred.

They need all hands on deck to make it happen, now, and Catarina has taken over all their other upcoming events so Magnus and Raphael can focus all their resources on making Clary’s dream wedding come true.

“This is incredible,” Magnus says truthfully. “A bit windy though.” He motions at the missing windows, lifting an eyebrow.

Alec huffs out a laugh. “The windows are being installed tomorrow,” he says. He slips his hands in his pocket, and crosses the distance between them. Magnus lets him, but becomes instantly more aware of his surroundings.

Alec’s eyes dart over his face, and he rolls back on his heels, jerking his head towards the back room. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

Magnus nods, and Alec guides him through the kitchen, which has also been fully renovated and is just waiting for Maia’s touch to add some life and colors to it, and then further to where a storage room has been refurbished into an office. Alec gets a key out of his pocket and opens it, holding the door open for Magnus to go in.

It is small, but as hospitable as Maia was capable of making it. A notebook is lying open on a soft grey desk, a thread of recipe ideas scribbled down. Next to it lay three business cards, with what Magnus knows looks shockingly like the logo of a big shot publishing house, but it isn’t any of his business, so he chooses to ignore it. 

Alec brushes past him to get to the desk, and Magnus valiantly pretends the close proximity the tiny space available procures them doesn’t affect him.

“I called Maia after talking with Clary on Saturday,” Alec eludes, using another key to open the first drawer on the desk. “I told her the situation, and she told me she would have a new set of menus ready for us today.”

He hands Magnus a piece of paper where he can easily recognize Maia’s handwriting, and Magnus smiles, grateful that this is one thing he can scratch off the interminable list of everything he has to do before the wedding in a couple of weeks.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

Alec smiles, clasps and unclasps his hands, opens and closes his mouth, and Magnus waits with bated breath as he seems to gather his courage to say what’s on his mind.

“Actually,” Alec says, voice lowering as he pushes himself a little bit closer, “I wanted to thank you.”

Magnus struggles to swallow past the lump that has declared permanent residency in his throat whenever Alec is around, but manages to stand still on his feet. Retreat would only make it clearer how easily Alec’s every move can shatter his hardly-constructed walls. Still, he can’t stop the way his brows dip into a confused frown.

“What for?”

“Talking to Clary on Friday,” Alec replies, running a hand at the nape of his neck. “I don’t know why you did but she told me you were the one who advised her to come to me and I appreciate it.”

There is no way Alec doesn’t perceive how awfully staged Magnus’ answering smile is, but he sends him one all the same. “You’re very welcome, Alec,” he says, as callously as he can convince himself to be. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of damage control to do, and entire wedding plans to revise.”

He moves to get out of the room, his heart rummaging in his chest and his veins boiling with slowly rising anger, and pushes past Alec with probably more force than strictly necessary.

Gentle fingers brush against his hand and wrap around his wrist, just tightly enough to pull him to a halt him before he can reach the door but not quite enough that he wouldn’t easily be able to break away from Alec’s resilient grip.

“Magnus,” Alec murmurs, billowing breath sweeping over Magnus’ ear, and Magnus clenches his teeth to suppress the long shiver that courses down his spine.

His head whips to the side, filled with good intentions of finally snapping at Alec to stop, for the love of everything, _just stop_ , but the words die miserably in his throat when he realizes how close Alec is to him, enough so that Magnus would barely have to move an inch for their noses to brush together, and their lips to meet.

His eyes drop to Alec’s mouth on their own accord, soft and inviting, and when Magnus looks up again, Alec is looking down at his own lips, something like desire shifting in the brown hues of his eyes.

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” Alec says, voice hoarse and hesitant, every note grazing Magnus’ face like a shivering caress.

Magnus stares at him defiantly, but refuses to reply, if only because he doesn’t fully trust his voice not to betray how affected he is by Alec’s proximity and the tips of his fingers brushing lightly over the tender skin on the inside of his wrist. Magnus moves gingerly to put some distance between them, eyes studying Alec silently. There is no guile on his features, as if he can’t possibly surmise why this could even be wrong.

“I promise I won’t ask again,” Alec says, sounding as wrecked at the prospect as Magnus feels. “But I know— I thought— I think you feel what I feel. And I just want to ask one last time... if maybe you would consider letting me take you out for dinner? If your answer is still the same, I promise you won’t ever hear from me again once the wedding is over and done.”

That sounds hardly possible, what with Alec slowly but surely becoming business partners with Maia, or the way he has invaded Magnus’ every waking thought, and on more than one occasion his dreams too.

Magnus should just take the offered opportunity, though, and tell Alec that this is exactly what he wants, for Alec never to contact him again as soon as he is done being his company’s client. He doesn’t want his handpicked coffees, his signed copies of Magnus’ favorite books, no more than he wants the sweet and private smiles Alec sends him as he crosses their premises to get to Raphael’s office, or his hazel eyes trained on his features, watching him in quiet awe as if Magnus is the most stunning view they have ever been graced with.

This is what he should tell him, for the sake of the days they have left working together, for the sake of Magnus’ impeccable reputation when it comes to making his clients happy. Anger, though, is like flowing water; it can do no harm as long as you let it flow. Magnus has kept it stagnant for too long, has denied himself the right and freedom of feeling it fully, and as he glances up at Alec, his whole body trembles with something poisonous and terrible.

Clary’s tears-ridden face flashes through his mind.

“Do you have no fucking shame?” he hisses, voice clipped and ruthless. Alec flinches backwards at the vehemence of his anger, fingers slipping off Magnus’ skin in the process and lips parting in shock. “Once the wedding is over and done? And then what? I’ll have dinner with you and your wife once a week and hope she’ll fall asleep before I leave so we can have a quickie in the hallway? Or should we make it more cliché and make it the fucking closet?”

Alec’s startled expression turns into plain and utter confusion. “I—What?” he wheezes out, looking at Magnus like he has just grown a second head. “What are you talking about?”

Magnus huffs out in exasperation and reaches out for the doorknob but Alec slams his hand against it to hold it shut.

Magnus throws him a murderous glare, fully aware his eyes are flashing with untamable ire. “Let go.”

“Magnus, I don’t have a wife,” Alec says, quickly as if he is scared Magnus will try to leave again if he doesn’t, but still reasonably confused. “Nor will I ever have one. I’m gay.” He pauses for a second, and then feels the need to add, “Very gay.”

Magnus’ brain promptly freezes, and he barely manages to stutter, “B-But—” before his voice trails off in stupor and he gestures lamely at the docks where he assumes Clary still is going through the chairs’ disposition for the ceremony.

Alec seems to understand, though, because his eyes widen, and he shakes his head vehemently. “Oh no,” he says with a grimace. “No. Nope. No.” He heaves out a deep breath, and levels Magnus with a firm gaze. “No. I’m not marrying Clary. I’m the best man. Clary is marrying Jace, my adopted brother.”

Several things flash through Magnus’ mind at once: that first phone call when Raphael was sick and how he had indulged in his bad habit of calling people by their last names, Magnus having been too distracted taking notes on everything to ask; how Alec would never, unlike Clary, use ‘we’ to talk about them; how surprised Clary had been when Magnus directed her to Alec when he thought she needed to talk to her fiancé about the best course of action for their upcoming wedding; how Isabelle hadn’t seemed that bothered to know her brother was interested in Magnus in a decisively non appropriate manner had he been about to get married.

“What kind of best man takes care of everything like you did?” Magnus breathes out, baffled.

“You told me I had to be there as much as possible!” Alec protests. And, well, he does have a point.

“And why was Jace never there?”

“He was for almost all our appointments with Raphael, but he’s a security expert and he’s often stuck at work at all hours of the day and night,” Alec eludes.

That makes sense too, Magnus admits to himself. It also explains why no one seemed to be particularly bothered by their obvious —now that he can admit it— attraction to each other.

“Fuck,” Magnus whispers under his breath, his eyes fluttering up to Alec, who is staring back at him, waiting silently for realization to dawn on him, arms crossed over his chest, accentuating his strong biceps in a way that would be awfully distracting weren’t the moment so crucial. “You’re not getting married.”

“Not to the best of my knowledge,” Alec retorts, and Magnus pointedly ignores his lips quirking up with an amused smirk.

“You’re the best man,” Magnus says flatly.

Alec nods, looking a little ashamed for some reason beyond Magnus, who feels mortification deep in his stomach, and entirely unsure what to do next.

Thankfully, Magnus knows exactly what to do.

“Why did you th—” Alec huffs, but his words die in his throat when Magnus takes two quick steps towards him until his hands are cupping his cheeks and his mouth is covering Alec’s.

Alec gasps in surprise and grabs at Magnus’ shoulders, first to balance himself and then to pull him closer. It’s messy and uncoordinated, a confusion of lips and teeth and wandering hands, and then Magnus tilts his chin a little, Alec parts his lips, and it is absolutely fucking perfect.

Magnus steps closer, wanting more, closer, deeper, and their lips are still moving together when Alec’s thighs hit the desk and he moans quietly against Magnus’ mouth, his warm fingers gripping his waist and pulling him closer still.

This, and Magnus’ hand sliding into Alec’s hair, gripping gently, is all it takes for things to spiral out of control. Magnus can’t exactly grasp how it happens, nor does he really want to, because his entire mind is focused solely on a single goal, kissing Alec, feeling his heartbeat against his own, and tear out of him more of those tiny, breathless pants that makes his own lips tingle and his body shiver with anticipation. Every other thought —everything that isn’t Alec, the softness of his heart and the passion of his soul— is blown to smithereens.

His hand slips under Alec’s dress shirt, digging into his hips, and then travels across the soft skin he has access to, and Alec deepens the kiss as his own fingers wander exploratively down Magnus’ stomach, his index hooking into his pants’ belt loops to pull their hips together.

He growls against his mouth at the feeling, and Alec takes full advantage of it, nibbling on his bottom lip, and Magnus can’t believe he almost let a dreadful misunderstanding deprive him of knowing exactly what it feels like to lose himself to Alec’s embrace.

And as they pull back, their billowing breaths crashing against each other’s mouth, Magnus thinks he never wants it to end.

“Magnus,” Alec whispers, voice ragged, grip tight against everything of him he can hold onto. “Can I take this as a yes to taking you out?”

Magnus chuckles against his mouth, fingers toying idly with the hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s gonna have to wait a couple of weeks,” he replies, barely over a murmur. He leans forward to kiss him again, quickly and yet enough to leave his lips tingling. “I have a big wedding coming up, I’m not going to have a lot of free time.”

“I can wait a couple of weeks,” Alec says, almost stubbornly. Something shifts in his eyes, playful and tempting and awfully endearing. “But I think you should make out with me a little longer so I can hold on until then.”

Magnus laughs again, and the sound is so carefree it surprises even himself. It makes Alec grin a little brighter, and the decision to kiss him again just that easier.

Their lips brush together, Alec’s breath hitches against Magnus’ lips, and this is when they hear the rap at the door.

“Magnus, we have a wedding to undo and then redo all over again,” Raphael’s voice grumbles through the door, obliterating the peaceful moment they had managed to find in each other’s arms.

Magnus sighs heavily, burying his face in the crook of Alec’s neck. It smells heavenly, and he would much rather stay here for the time being.

“Which is entirely your fault,” Raphael feels the need to add, and Magnus groans, showing one carefully chosen finger at the door.

Alec chuckles quietly against him, his shoulders shaking as he gently brushes a comforting hand against Magnus’ back.

“I’ll be right there,” Magnus calls back, and waits until Raphael’s footsteps have moved away before he pulls out of his quixotic hideout and runs the tip of his thumb over Alec’s cheekbones. “Raincheck?”

Alec nods, and reluctantly frees Magnus from his embrace. Magnus smoothes out his shirt, tugging it back into his pants, and runs a hand into his hair to rein it in. Then, he smacks a last, quick kiss to Alec’s mouth and opens the door, which closes almost immediately. Magnus laughs brightly as he is swirled around by a firm tug on his wrist and the oxygen thoroughly kissed out of his lungs.

When Alec pulls back, his eyes are glimmering dotingly, and it is a look so strikingly familiar that the air would promptly leave his lungs if there was any left for him to breathe.

“Go ahead,” Alec murmurs against him, the smirk on his lips reflected in his eyes. “My wedding isn’t going to plan itself.”

Magnus glares, narrowing his eyes on him. “This isn’t funny,” he warns.

Alec bites on his bottom lip in an attempt at stifling the wide, amused grin that is spreading on his face, but his feeble effort is vain, and Magnus rolls his eyes, turning away to leave for good this time, Alec giggling an apology at his back.

Magnus feels a bit dizzy for the rest of the afternoon, and he isn’t sure it is solely due to the frighteningly growing list of things to do now that they are completely changing the setting of the wedding, or something else entirely.

.

Magnus’ consciousness of the world around him slowly ebbs throughout the next few days as the wedding gets closer. His mind is swirling with a beautiful chaos of flowers and cakes and abating the happy couple’s parents fury at not being consulted before the whole plan for the big day was changed. He barely sees anyone but his colleagues, though, as he deals with everything that requires to be stuck at the office while Raphael handles the ground work.

He finally meets Jace, properly, and he can’t quite explain the sense of relief he experiences when he realizes how perfectly fitting he is for Clary, how utterly in love with her he is. Magnus finds he quite likes him, once he pushes past the first impression, an affinity that is abruptly aborted by Jace jokingly asking whether Magnus minds that their last minute change of plan involves making him the groom instead of Alec.

Despite it all, and the challenging circumstances, everything seems to be going somewhat smoothly. Still, Magnus is exhausted.

Which is the reasonable explanation as to why he wakes up with a start on a Thursday night, the week before the wedding, half lying on his desk and a paper sheet of a list of selected songs for the reception glued to his cheek. Magnus pulls it off with a grimace, and it takes him a moment to realize what exactly woke him up.

He detects the delicious whiff of Vietnamese food before he sees who laid it down on his desk, but Magnus isn’t really surprised to find Alec standing there, a bashful smile on his beautiful face.

The office is plunged into darkness, and Magnus rubs at his eyes.

“Hey,” he mutters. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have the bachelor party this weekend?”

Alec nods, chin jerking toward the window as if Magnus could see down the street from his prostate position on the desk. “They’re waiting for me downstairs,” he eludes, and then runs a nervous hand in his hair. “Clary said you and Raphael were working yourselves to the bone to make sure everything is ready for next week, so I asked them to make a stop on the way to the airport to make sure you eat something. I left more in your kitchen.” He points a finger in its vicinity, as if Magnus needs him to show him where the kitchen of his own company is.

Magnus rests his chin in his palm and his elbow on the desk, and tilts his head as he observes him silently for a moment.

“You’re unbearably sweet,” he says eventually.

Alec chuckles, head dipping back just a hint, and shrugs. “That’s not the word Jace used,” he says, mirthfully.

Magnus smiles. “Thank you, Alexander,” he says truthfully. “I am indeed starving.”

“It’s not entirely innocent,” Alec admits, but he doesn’t look all that apologetic. “I haven’t seen you since Monday, and I was hoping my good deed would earn me a kiss.”

Magnus smirks, if only to hide the way his heart slams against his ribcage and flutters in his chest, and leans back in his chair. “I’m not sure what exactly is stopping you, then.”

Alec barely has time to take a step forward before a loud honk resonates all the way to the second floor, and he sighs in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I hate them,” he grumbles.

Magnus chuckles, and pushes himself to his feet to cross the distance between them. He reaches out to tug a wild strand of hair off Alec’s forehead. “Have fun this weekend. The next week is going to be crazy for all of us.”

Alec winces a little at the mere thought, although he seems to have a fairly decent idea, even without Magnus’ years of experience in the matter, of what is waiting for him as soon as they fly back from –cliché of all clichés– Las Vegas.

The honk bursts from the street again, quickly followed by a loud cry, “Get your ass down here, Lover Boy! We have a plane to catch.”

“I guess I’ll see you next week,” Magnus says with a chuckle, gently pushing him towards the exit.

Alec sighs heavily, sounding like Magnus has just shared with him some news far graver than the approximately ten days they will spend without barely catching a glimpse of one another. It doesn’t fully conceal his excitement for the upcoming weekend, but Magnus appreciates the effort nonetheless.

“I’ll be the one standing next to the altar,” he says, teasingly.

Magnus rolls his eyes, the tip of his ears flushing crimson. “Go before I waste perfectly good Vietnamese food by throwing it at your face.”

Alec chuckles lightly, and swiftly turns around to steal a kiss from Magnus, before disappearing down the stairs.

.

Magnus collapses into the nearest chair, and heaves out a groan of exhaustion.

He is completely worn, and a quick glimpse at the other side of the reception area where Raphael is staring without blinking at Simon, the second best man, while he talks animatedly, with wide gestures and complete disregard for the fact that Raphael doesn’t look remotely interested in what he has to say, is enough for him to know he isn’t alone in his endeavor.

Still, Magnus manages a smile as he watches Clary, magnificent in Helen’s dress, her red hair flowing down her shoulders in waves adorned with white flowers, dancing with her stepfather Luke, who looks back at her with fierce pride and unconditional love. She looks happy, and Magnus would give himself a pat on the shoulder for a job well done if he had the strength to lift his arm at all. The wedding has been a success, a matter of the heart rather than the display of wealth and power it had started up as, and Magnus feels triumphant, and desperately in need of a dozen glasses of champagne and anything strong he can get his hands on.

There isn’t many people left, only the newlyweds and their closest family and friends. Usually, this is the moment where Magnus wants to beg them all to go home, so he can finish up here, send all the hired waiters home, thank the family for hiring his company, and then drag himself home on wobbling legs.

Magnus is just starting to fantasize about the infinite comfort his bed would provide right this moment when a tap on his shoulder pulls him back to the coarse reality.

Alec looks devastatingly exquisite in his Berluti suit. Ragnor truly outdid himself with this choice, but Magnus thinks it might have to do with the gorgeous specimen wearing it, and not all his best friend’s craft. It’s a bit rumpled by now, from how many times Alec has been pulled to the makeshift dance floor by his relatives –mostly his sister– to the tunes struck up by Simon’s band, and then the various playlists they had handpicked for the occasion.

Alec holds out a hand, and smiles something sweet and intimate. “Can I have this dance?”

Magnus blinks up at him, and then at himself, and back at Alec. “I don’t think I can move, Alexander.”

Alec chuckles, wiggling his fingers in a decidedly endearing albeit impatient manner. “Come on, you won’t even have to walk. We can do it right here and I’ll lead.”

Magnus lifts an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “How very bold of you, Mr. Lightwood.”

And he regrets nothing, not when Alec’s cheeks flush a bright red even the dimmed fairy lights blanketing the docks can’t hide. Chuckling, Magnus accepts the hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet, wrapping the other one around Alec’s waist and leaning into him.

True to his words, Alec guides them into a slight, peaceful sway, and for a while, Magnus forgets about everything else, even about the fatigue weighing on his body that should make it impossible for him to even stand on his feet anymore, and just lets himself feel the sense of quietude and burgeoning tenderness that engulfs him whole.

“Would it be completely cliché of me to take home the best man?” Magnus asks, his voice barely over a whisper, cautious not to pierce through the thin veil of serenity that has settled over them.

Alec’s lips brush against his ear, “Yes,” he replies.

“I might just fall asleep on him, if I’m perfectly honest,” Magnus sighs forlornly.

“That’s okay,” Alec says. “I hear the best man makes great breakfast in bed.”

“Such a cliché,” Magnus murmurs, fingers trailing against Alec’s back to the rhythm of the soft music.

“You should do it anyway,” Alec wisely advises.

Magnus hums in agreement, and tightens his hold on Alec’s waist as Alec pulls back a little, just enough so he can tip his head down and kiss Magnus, soft and slow and impossibly blunt in all its boundless passion.

“Alright,” Alec mutters as he pulls back, and Magnus is starting to recognize that mischievous spark in his gaze, the one he reserves to the people he is particularly comfortable with. “Let me go get Jace for you.”

Magnus pinches his side in retaliation, and Alec laughs, head thrown back in glee, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he can’t help but laugh with him.

It is an art in itself, to make a living out of making people happy.

Tonight, Magnus thinks that perhaps it is his years of experience in the matter that make the flutter in his chest so effortlessly unequivocal.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I'm on twitter [@_L_ecrit](https://twitter.com/_L_ecrit).
> 
> Big thank you to my boo [Jackie](https://twitter.com/jwrites_) for encouraging me and beta'ing this. Love you to Jupiter and back.
> 
> All the love,  
> Lu.


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